Filling In The Blanks IV

11: Nothing But Fear Itself

Sometimes, Kurogane thinks that Fai is a little bit scary.

But only a little bit.

He himself is certainly not scared of Fai, because Kurogane You-ou isn't scared of anything. Like, nothing at all. It's just a possible theory that he thinks Fai might be scary—in an objective sort of way. And Kurogane thinks that it's a fucking good theory, too, because it's a theory that he's gathered after months upon months of research and observation. He's proved his hypothesis and drawn his conclusions.

Right now, he's just reanalyzing his data.

And the starting point of the research began back at the beginning of Fai's senior year at Akamizu.

Beneath the sheets, Kurogane absently stroked the side of Fai's thigh. The violinist lay on his stomach, finger moving in circles around the keypad of his laptop—propped up against a pillow, and both of them lying naked in bed. "How come you're always doing crap?" Kurogane muttered.

Fai's eyes were glued to the screen. "Hm?"

"If you're going to worry all the time about auditions, why don't you just audition? All those orchestras are always fucking emailing you, anyway."

"Wha…?"

Kurogane dug his fingers into the pale skin. "D'you even hear me?"

Fai's head didn't move. "Sure, Kuro-puu. The double shots are over there." The musician pointed absently.

"Just audition, for god's sakes, and get it over with," Kurogane nudged Fai. Hard.

The violinist's head swiveled around slowly. "Why would I need to audition?" He blinked, finger slowing its rounds around the keypad.

Kurogane frowned. Blinked back. "Isn't that why you've been spending all this time on your laptop for the past week? Because you were nervous about auditions?"

Fai's brow furrowed. "I still don't get it."

"What are you doing on your laptop right now?" Kurogane rephrased carefully, feeling something in his stomach tie itself into undoable knots one by one.

"I'm counting, rejecting, and deleting the emails I've gotten from all the orchestras that keep sending invitations to me," Fai said obviously. "Last weekend, Yuui and I started a race to see who could reject the most by the end of the week. We tried to get Subaru to join, but Seishiro wouldn't let us." Fai adjusted the laptop on his pillow, and jabbed at the screen indicatively. "We agreed that it's cheating to copy and paste rejections, but I thought that if I changed opening and ending sentences every third time, it's technically a valid loophole. Don't you think?"

By now, Kurogane's eyes had become really small. "Wait. So. You are going to audition for the orchestra you do want to get into…right?"

Fai blinked again. "I don't see what that has to do with the race. Actually, I don't get what auditioning has to do with me at all."

"You want to get into an orchestra…right?" Kurogane asked as slowly as he could without sounding retarded himself.

Fai nodded.

"So in order to get into an orchestra, you have to audition…right?"

Fai smiled. "Oh. I get it now."

"Good. Because I don't, retard."

Fai laughed, and tugged at a handful of strands of Kurogane's hair. "Of course I don't audition, Kuro-kun. I just call them up and ask them what time rehearsal is. Then they'll erase the audition list for first violin and concert master."

Kurogane sputtered. Only a little bit.

"Now, no more talking, 'kay? I have to get at least sixty-seven more done by tonight, or else I'll be behind schedule, and then we can't have any sex until Friday."

Today was Tuesday.

Kurogane sighed, turned around, and went to sleep.

Sometimes, Kurogane wondered if being around the Fluorites too much would affect his mental health. After all, Ashura Ou didn't seem too sane himself either. But then again, Ashura Ou had always been plenty scary as it was.


12: An Apple a Day

Kamui would like to think that he was a strapping young man with a good health and all the things that came with that. He had good eyesight, sharp senses, a fine mind, and pertaining to his age, a well exercised libido. And even though he could spend hours upon hours reading and writing, unmoving from a single spot, he probably weighed less than the average seventh grader—and he could pull it off, too.

But anyway. His libido. Right. Kamui was more than wholly certain that he had as much sexual stamina and need as was necessary and as was normal. Because for a young human man in his early twenties, four nights of sex a week should be more than enough. It was more than half the week. Thus, for a normal, young, human man, it should be enough. More than enough. It should be fucking plenty.

Recently, however, Kamui had been forced to rethink his criteria of a normal, young, human man, and he had discovered that Fuuma was neither normal, nor human, although he was unfortunately very much a young man.

Because four nights of sex a week just wasn't enough for Fuuma, apparently. Seven nights a week wasn't enough either. It was three times every day at the least that made the cut for the athlete—if possible, four, but six really would be best.

And Kamui, after that, had set it upon himself to type up a grade A+ thesis for Fuuma to read on absolutely why having sex more than once a day is probably going to be illegal sometime in the not-so-far future, because it is impossible to actually have a productive lifestyle when you were being thrown onto a granite countertop on your stomach every two hours.

Not to mention that the latest fad was to Go Green, and it was hardly possible to Go Green when you were using over ten gallons of water for your laundry every day because your clothes needed washing every day.

But of course, as per everything in Fuuma-dom, Kamui's thesis proved absolutely nothing except that Kamui was a lovely genius, who deserved lots and lots of celebratory sex because he wrote so well, even when he was just teasing Fuuma about the fact that Fuuma's sexual prowess was beyond that of even Yuui's. Word for word. Really.

And then, while Kamui had been scowling and preparing himself for the inevitable toss over the kitchen countertop, Fuuma had grinned, temporarily removing his tongue from the writer's navel, and said, "An apple a day keeps the doctor away, y'know."

"You're insufferable."

Fuuma just broadened his grin. "Kamui every night keeps Fuuma satisfied."

"Die. You need to die. Like, now. That sentence was disgusting."

The athlete raised an eyebrow.

Kamui sighed. "Or you can die after I come. I suppose."


A/N: If you have your torches lit and your pitchforks sharpened, I can't blame you. I really can't. I am officially EPIC FAIL EVAR at updating. I no longer have the excuse that high school kills my brain dead, because my brain has been resurrected. I also do not have the homework excuse, because even though I'm taking all the honors classes (and all the highest levels for a freshmen), too, I have about an hour of homework a night. At the most. I have no excuse except for the fact that JE bishies kill my time dead. NewS and KAT-TUN....WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?

I swear. Blame them. BLAME THEM.

(But seriously, even though it's at a snail pace, I'm working on Compelled, Unveiled, and Impulse. Maybe, if you read one sentence of this chapter per day, by the time you finish, new chapters will be up...)

On another, huger, note: DUDES, TRC IS EFFING OOOOOOOOOVEEEEEEEERRRR. WHAT DO WE DO NOW?

Yeah. It's 10:30, and since I read the chapter yesterday, I spazzed and ranted yesterday, and thus have no more spastic rantingness to use up on this A/N. All I can say is that JE bishies are so full of sexy hotness and evil that I'm starting to form a theory on how they are supernatural beings who kill with their sexy hips of DOOM. Especially Jin. ESPECIALLY BAKANISHI.